


Bookends

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Post Bartlett Administration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-15
Updated: 2003-02-15
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: Old friends, sat on their parkbench like bookends.





	Bookends

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Bookends**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** Friendship, Jed, Leo, Sam, Josh  
**Rating:** YTEEN for character deaths  
**Summary:** Old friends, sat on their parkbench like bookends.  
**Disclaimer:** You shouldn't sue me. This is Aaron Sorkin's fault for writing The West Wing, and Paul Simon's fault for writing "Old Friends/Bookends." You shouldn't sue me, because I'm not making any money on their stuff, and besides that, I'm a nice person. Except for the character deaths.  


He had taken to using a cane, in these later years. It was a beautiful cane, mahogany tipped in silver on the bottom and mounded in Celtic design on the top. It tapped rhythmically on the cement sidewalk whenever he stepped, quiet yet distinctive through the din of the city. 

Brown and red leaves danced around him as he neared the wrought-iron park bench, swirling in the light wind for a moment before floating to the ground once again. Blue eyes, not dulled by age or anything else, smiled as they settled on the old man already seated on the bench. 

"You're late," the seated man said through a smile; the dimples of his youth were buried in lines of time. His hair was lighter, thinner, and slowly disappearing. 

The other man pulled his overcoat tighter about his body before sitting down with a small groan of effort. His own hair was still dark, except for the occasional gray strand that filtered through the thick locks. "I had a speech at Georgetown," he replied, a little sheepishly. "It went over." 

"I know," his friend said. A familiar smile graced his features before disappearing. "Abbey told me about it on the phone." His countenance turned slightly apologetic. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it." 

The crinkling of cold wind blowing newspaper on the ground made them look up momentarily, and blue eyes met the sheet with dismay. "People shouldn't litter," he stated, his hand wrapping around the offending scrap before crushing it and throwing it into a nearby trashcan. 

Hazel eyes laughed as they watched dried, dead leaves being uprooted by the wind of the passing cars. "Some things never change, I guess." 

"I guess," he admitted, a smile growing on his lips, still bright even after all those years. 

Around them, the city bustled past, pedestrians making their ways from point a to point b, as they sat like statues. The migrant pigeons landed in front of them, pecking at the cobblestone of the park walk for scraps, as the two continued talking of past successes and past foibles. 

These meetings had been going on for years, ever since the end of the Bartlet administration; each year brought them back a little more experienced, a little more battered, a little wiser. Every autumn, November, they would meet in front of the same fountain, no matter what. And every year, the pigeons would be there, with the wind blowing the scraps of paper and red-brown leaves around. 

This year was no different from the last, except for a few more wrinkles, a few more memories. The next year brought them together again, and it was the same story, comfortable like a battered hat. He returned again with his cane, the silver tip still as shined (though with a few scars from hitting the hard ground), and he was again greeted with a friendly, "You're late." 

Year after year past, until one year, there was only one of the two. Around him, the city passed by, unnoticing as his mahogany cane tapped on the ground. His hair had finally gone gray, and his wife was beside him as he walked, her own dark hair lightened with age. His blue eyes, however, were yet to be dulled. 

He seemed to lean more heavily on the cane as he walked towards the parkbench, as if he would be blown down by the wind if he wasn't careful. It was only a few steps from his wife to the bench, but he was struggling for breath as he pulled a photograph out of his pocket. It fluttered in the fall breeze, and he pressed the tape to the cold metal bench, smoothing out the air bubbles. 

"I'm late again, Leo," he said quietly. Then he walked off, and the two young men in the photograph smiled at his back. 

Another few years passed, and the parkbench was visited by the one old friend every year, until one year, he, too, was gone. The bench remained cold for a year or two, frequented only by passing strangers, until one day, another two men found their way to it. 

"Sam!" the one called out from his seat upon the iron bench, his wild curls gray and begging to be tamed as he waved his friend over. "You're late." 

Blue eyes looked down sheepishly as he walked briskly towards his friend. "I had a talk to give at American University. It kinda went over." 

"Yeah," he replied, smiling a bit. "Mallory called, told me about it. Sorry I couldn't come ... " 

The younger one shrugged his okay as he sat down, and scowled at the sheet of newspaper on the ground. "People really shouldn't litter," he said, crumpling the paper up and tossing it into a nearby recycling bin. 

The slightly older man chuckled and shook his head. "Guess some things never change, huh?" 

"Guess so," he admitted, a smile growing on his lips, still bright even after all those years. 

They talked, and around them, the city bustled past. 

-end- 


End file.
